


Till Death and Ever After

by Vrazdova



Series: Blood Before Water [2]
Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Dom/sub Play, M/M, POV Fuckery, Psychological Horror, Unreliable Narrator, sleep paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrazdova/pseuds/Vrazdova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Some nights, a demon comes and pins me down. He holds me on the edge of consciousness, taunts me with my past - mocks me for being alive.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>I dread ever going to sleep.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brother Incubus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadcellredux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/gifts).



> This is FINALLY a continuation of your prompt from Chocobo Races 2011!! I've tried to write this story several times since then, but it's never worked out. For some reason, it suddenly all kind of fell into place. Apparently what it needed was a confusing format and a bit of a psychological horror swing.
> 
> While this was technically written to be a sequel to _Our Shadows_ , it's a completely different kind of story, and a couple minor details that were introduced in the first fic have changed [continuity fail, oh well]. I'd say it's not necessary to have read the first one to understand what's going on here, though it picks up from the way Clyde & Baram met in part 1.
> 
> Probably goes without saying, but this fic gets quite dark by the end. I don't like to use too many tags due to spoilers, but if you know the canon story of Clyde & Baram you can mostly figure out where it's eventually going to go.
> 
> Rated 'Explicit' for violence, sexual content and lots of cussin'.

_I feel the familiar dip of the mattress as he climbs up next to me, on top of me. He straddles my thighs, his weight sinking into my muscles, numbing them. He grips my wrists and my arms stiffen. For a moment he only watches me, waiting for me to stop trembling – waiting for me to give up. My heart has long since ceased fighting – it is only the survival instinct flowing through my veins that keeps my limbs struggling against this entanglement._

_Whatever sign he’d been searching for – he finds it. Though he releases my wrists, all my strength has withered and died, and I lie idly as he slides down onto my chest. He stretches out full-length atop my body; my lungs can no longer hold a full breath. He covers my eyes with one hand and I feel a vibration in my throat. It’s my own voice._

_He smothers me entirely – as he always does – but he never closes my mouth._

_I wish he would._

* * *

You’re in jail again. _Again!_ You’ve known this guy barely three weeks and he’s already doubled the number of times you’ve been behind bars. That’s four times total, for the record. You are really starting to question your decision to take off with Baram.

He’s taking a piss in the corner. _Ask them to bring you to the toilet, you dirty prick_ , you say, but he laughs it off. You cross your arms in disgust and try to ignore the voices of other brigands and thieves in neighboring cells. Once upon a time, you’d thought you were better than men like them. But that was before you had hair on your chin and the strength to to drive railroad spikes into the ground, and before you could truly understand the injustice of a measly bag of two hundred gil at the end of a back-breaking week of manual labor.

You know exactly why they rob and fight and vandalize. Ruining something for someone else in turn makes them feel more like their own suffering is justified. Or paid for. Or avenged.

You _get it_ ; you really do. But that doesn’t mean you’re happy about spending another night in the drunk tank, dodging roaches and mildew and puddles of piss as an overpaid guard jangles the keys just out of reach like he’s teasing an animal. This is humiliating.

“Hey, when’s dinner?” Baram barks, rattling the door of your shared cage.

The guard clangs a baton against the iron bars. The sound pierces your temples; the throbbing behind your brow intensifies. “This ain’t a bed and breakfast, punk. Be grateful you even got a roof over your head tonight.”

“I’ll suck the meat off your bones,” sneers Baram. He flashes his teeth with a hiss.

“You a man or a dog?” an inmate from the cell just to your left chuckles, and Baram flips a damning gesture in his direction. The man only laughs harder. “Little puppy thinks he’s tough! Good thing these bars are here to keep him from humping my leg!”

Malicious laughter erupts around the room; Baram’s face begins to turn red. But before things can escalate further, you reach through the bars and grab the man’s collar. With a swift flex, you bring his forehead in sharp contact with iron. A drop of blood lands on your cheek; a few more soak into your shirt. The man slumps to the floor like a sack of bricks.

_I have a headache,_ you say. _So does he. Quiet down for a fuckin’ minute._

Baram slides onto the barebones cot at the other end of the cell without another word. He’s watching you closely.

* * *

Your coin purse is unnervingly light, and Baram’s posture has changed, if just slightly. You keep your head down, shielding your eyes from the early morning sun, but it reflects mercilessly off the puddles on the ground. The air is stiflingly humid. At least your night in jail kept you out of the rain.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he says. You sigh audibly in response.

He’s uncomfortable; it’s _palpable_. You both walk free because _you_ paid off the guard. He doesn’t like this distribution of power, but that’s not your problem.

Though you can recognize an attempt at calling truce.

_Hair of the dog?_

He visibly relaxes. “The only thing that’s gonna get me through this morning,” he admits. “I feel like there’s a knife stickin’ outta my head.”

You let out a grim laugh. Hangovers: the great equalizer. Insult and injury all wrapped up in a neat, painful reminder of a night of poor decisions.

_Lead the way_ , you say, and his feet cut the quickest path to a nearby open tavern.

* * *

_Someone is pacing outside my door. The floorboards are squeaky as hell; can’t they hear themselves? Do they think they’re being stealthy?_

_The footsteps halt. They must be listening at the keyhole. When my silence disappoints them, they finally walk away. Innkeepers don’t trust me awake_ or _asleep._

_I wish I could camp outside, alone, but I never know when he’ll come and pin me down. A nosy proprietor is embarrassing, but even with Interceptor at my side, an opportunistic beast would quickly be the death of me._

_Is that what he wants?_

* * *

You roll another cigarette. This tobacco is better than any you’ve ever had at home – you didn’t even _know_ it could be this good. This stuff is spicy and fragrant, like incense. It doesn’t taste stale, the way you’ve always thought it had to. The flavor lingers on your lips like a kiss; the smoke is tinged just slightly blue. You’re twenty-four years old, you’ve just sailed on your first ship, and now you’re riding your first train and smoking your first _real_ cigarette.

And perhaps your first real friend is sitting by your side.

Baram puts his arm around your neck and plucks the roll from your mouth with the tips of his fingers. The action is deliberate – he’s pulling you close, but you don’t mind. He leans in, takes a drag, and places it back upon your lips. You catch a whiff of his exhalation as the wind whips it out of the boxcar to dissipate into the shallow valley below.

You both sit on the ledge of an open door on the side of a shipment car. The latch had yielded easily to two men with nothing to lose, clinging to the side of a quickening train. Inside, you found barrels of apples and sacks of dried tobacco, and you both decided you deserved a holiday for once in your lives. The train is heading north across the Mirror Plains toward Doma – which had only ever been a faraway, mythical place on the map to two lower-class young men from the Southern Continent.

Now, you look out across the expanse known as the Veldt and wonder absently about the herds of strange-looking creatures in the distance. Are they really that big, or are they closer than you think?

“We could make our living off of this,” comes Baram’s voice. He has gone back into the boxcar to sift through the other packages stacked therein.

_What, stealing shit and reselling it?_

“Something like that.” He brings over two apples and sits back down beside you. He pulls out a knife to carve the fruit as he continues.

“There are three basic categories of things you can take from others: goods, money, and ideas. I suppose you could add a fourth category – _lives_ – but unless you’re hunting bounty, that’s no good on its own.” You watch his work with the blade. He’s not carving the apple to eat it.

“Reselling goods is obvious, but cumbersome. How much could the two of us really carry off this train? Not enough to be worth the risk involved – at least not with _this_ freight. Ideas are potentially the most valuable, but you have to know what to do with them. Say we stumble upon some big secret – who’s gonna listen to a couple street rats like us? We get dismissed as nutjobs, quietly killed off on the side. We’d need a middleman to actually succeed there. No good.”

He takes a pinch of herb from a different sack and tucks it into the bowl of the makeshift pipe he’s created. You hand him the matchbook.

“Stealing gil, though – that’s where it’s at! Clean and simple; doesn’t involve anyone but ourselves.” He puts a flame to the bowl and inhales from a smaller opening on the other side of the apple.

_Gil is the most obvious target for thieves. That’s why we’re sitting in this box of produce undisturbed right now: everyone knows it’s not worth stealing. A shipment of gil is gonna be way better protected._ It’s your turn, but you hesitate with the match as you watch for Baram’s reaction.

“That’s why we gotta learn to be invisible. Like shadows.” He smiles, heavy-lidded, and prods the apple toward you.

_Shadows aren’t invisible_ , you say plainly, and lift it to your lips. The smoke, saturated with the flavor of fruit, swirls down into your lungs and up to your brain as you lie back against a burlap sack to relish it. Through the frame of the narrow doorway, you watch thin, wispy clouds slowly change shape as they amble across the cerulean sky. You are vaguely aware of a soft weight on your shoulder. At some point, you close your eyes.

* * *

_No, no, no – why has he come on this night? I’ve been alone for weeks – months! – and now that I travel in company, he visits. There were just enough beds, but not enough rooms to guarantee privacy, so I must share this space with the others. And now I share my bed as well._

_He sits on my chest – breathing becomes so difficult – holding my head to the side of the pillow. All I can do is stare at the ex-General sleeping in the bed to my right. The boy she’s been stealing glances at every time I see them stirs quietly beside her. He disgusts me, the way he clings to his past with one hand while groping at her with the other. I’ve heard his sad story twice already, and I barely know him. He talks too much._

_“Let me go,” I try to say, but it comes out a low groan. I wish to turn away from these two._

_The hand at my jaw slides down to my throat. I wish he would dig his fingers in – close off my windpipe and stop my breath for good – but he won’t. Instead, he teases me. He listens to my heartbeat, touches my throbbing pulse points, reminds me so torturously that I am still alive in such a vulnerable state. He makes me stare at those two for what seems like hours, watching them toss and turn, surreptitiously draping their arms over each other as though they don’t realize what they’re doing. It’s driving me mad._

_Then at long last, he mercifully covers my eyes, fingers still cradling my throat._

* * *

Doma is a fascinating country. Its people value order – much as they do in certain parts of the Southern Continent – but everything is so much _cleaner_ here, it’s almost surreal. Is this really a city? Where are the trash-strewn alleys? Where are the rats?

For the first time in your life, you feel self-conscious. You look and dress and speak so differently from these people, you wonder if they’ll drive you out simply for sullying their image.

You are suddenly aware that you haven’t had a bath in... you can’t even remember.

“This all looks fancy here, but where there’s a city, there are slums,” says Baram confidently. “Let’s find someplace more familiar.”

You trust his instincts and follow him through the winding streets in search of seedier territory. Not that you would’ve minded staying in the city center, if you could fit in, but...

He easily sniffs out other foreigners, more Southern societal rejects who’d just so happened to drift into this part of the world. In a flash, he sells off a good stock of the herbs and tobacco you’d lifted from the train, and his coin purse is quickly brimming.

_You’ve got a knack for that. You sure we shouldn’t stick to stealing goods?_ He hands the money over to you without explanation. Is he paying you back, or entrusting you...?

“Ha! No, these guys are too naive to know just yet that I’ve completely ripped them off because they’re used to shitty, overpriced Marandan weed as a standard – but they’d catch on soon. This business involves too much looking over your shoulder. We’ve got enough to get by for a little while now, so let’s enjoy it!”

It really is _we_ – Baram could’ve kept that money and left you in the dust – _you_ certainly wouldn’t have been able to push that stock as efficiently as he had. But what should be _his_ hard-earned gil is in your pocket and he’s practically dragging you along, now. His motives are ever enigmatic. Does he need you for something?

Of course: another bar. This one is just shy of being a literal hole in the wall, but here you are. The beer is terrible, so you demand something better; you have the gil for it, after all. The bartender sets a tiny bottle in between you and Baram, and you now wonder if it’s the two of you who are getting played. But Baram nods encouragingly, and you hand over the coin to pay for it.

Skeptically, you take a gulp, and at once you’re breathing fire. Baram isn’t the only one laughing as you choke and gasp for water. “Haven’t you ever had copperwine before?” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. A glass of water appears on the table.

_That’s not copperwine! What the fuck!_

“No, no, it’s _like_ a fine copperwine – but this stuff’s clear and made from rice. More potent. You gotta sip it, or... you know.”

Your expression must be vengeful, because he quickly tries to stifle the rest of his laughter. And then despite his own advice, he shoots a mouthful of the liquor himself and grabs the water out of your hand to chase it.

_Why the hell did you do that?_

“Even the playing field,” he sputters, features contorted.

By now, you’ve attracted an audience. You worry that this night is just going to end like all the other late nights in bars back home – but then you remember that _you_ control the gil this time, and thus you control the flow of alcohol. He can’t drink too much if you don’t let him. This must have been his design.

The flush subsides from Baram’s cheeks as he catches his breath. He pours two more shots from the bottle you’ve purchased and slides one toward you.

“This time, we sip.”

Maybe he doesn’t _need_ you for something so much as he _wants_ you.

* * *

_What is this?_

You point at a silver star made of blades. It rests beside small knives and darts in a glass case.

“It’s called _shuriken_ ,” says the proprietor, eyeing you suspiciously. “Not a toy.”

“Is this a damn weapon shop or a toy store?” counters Baram. “We’re not idiots.”

You ignore his outburst and continue to engage the proprietor. _A throwing weapon? How much?_

The man still seems hesitant to sell to you out-of-towners. “Ahh, it requires training to use... I cannot in good faith sell you something with which you could easily hurt yourself.”

_I can throw blades,_ you shrug. _I’ll prove it. Got a target?_

Baram is seething as he follows you out behind the shop. You pull your own collection of knives – all mismatched and dulling terribly – from their holsters and stand back. With little effort, you send them all streaming into the bullseye. A glance at your friend tells you he is no longer so angry about the unjust need for demonstration. You can’t help but smirk.

_Always been a hobby. Come home after work, throw knives at the wall to blow off steam. What, you’ve never tried it?_

The weapons proprietor shows you how to hold the stars, and you practice with a few rounds. Doesn’t quite equate to the old knives you’re used to, but you like them just fine. They’ll make a nice souvenir of your first trip to Doma, anyhow.

Baram makes no protest as you hand over the money for a set. It really is yours to do with as you wish.

As you leave the shop, he says, “Show me how you do that, later. That was amazing to watch.”

His eyes catch yours for a brief moment – and for some reason, he begins to look different to you.

* * *

_You don’t think they’ll charge us for this?_

“This is the shittiest inn in the city, Clyde. Look, there are already holes in the walls!” Baram takes a piece of charcoal and draws a small target across the wooden panels. You retrieve your new shuriken and study them in the flickering gaslight. Each star has six sharp blades. They’re still a little strange to hold.

You aim and release the first star. It lands a few inches to the right of the target.

_Guess these take more practice. I can throw my_ knives _with my eyes closed, anyway._

“Do it!” says Baram. He takes a swig from a bottle he’d bartered some more tobacco for – a better deal than paying the actual gil price, he’d said.

You grab your favorite knife, conceal your vision, and send it effortlessly into the target as promised. Baram cheers and hands you the bottle.

“Do it again; I wanna make sure that wasn’t a fluke,” he goads. “Close your eyes.” He brushes his hand over your lids and presses the hilt of another knife into your palm; you know exactly which one it is by touch alone. You hesitate a moment, thinking about where you were standing when he bade you shut your eyes. Then you raise your arm and throw. You hear a small gasp as it sinks into the wall.

You find Baram standing right next to the target, ear touching the bullseye. The blade has just barely missed his flesh.

_What are you doing?_ you cry out, and he breaks into a fit of laughter that catches you entirely off-guard.

“That’s amazing! _You’re_ amazing! Dear gods!” He passes you the bottle for another celebratory drink, and at once you realize you’d been holding your breath. His arm is around your shoulders, your pulse is racing from the shock, _and you_ – and you’re suddenly giddy and lightheaded, and you take him into a rough embrace, swearing into his nearly-severed ear, _Don’t scare me like that, goddammit!_

He grips the collar of your jacket, ragged nails scratching just slightly against the back of your neck, and his cheek slides against yours as he searches for your own ear and says, “Sorry, I do stupid things sometimes.”

And then you kiss him, or he kisses you – either way, you’re both slightly off-target this time, and the coarse hair on his chin scrapes your lips before you find what you were aiming for, but as soon as you taste the tang of copperwine you know you’re in the right spot, even if you’re not entirely sure why you were heading there in the first place. At this point, _reasons_ hardly seem to matter – why are you in Doma? why did you waste your money on throwing stars? _why did it take this long to get to this point?_ – and you push your tongue into his mouth.

He laughs into your kiss – it hums against your lips, your tongue – sending a wave of excitement down your spine, causing your hair to stand on end. His hands are not shy, circling your waist, grabbing your ass. He presses you closer and you feel him hardening against you. And suddenly you are filled with a desperate desire, a _need_ that hasn’t consumed you so fully in far too long – but here he is, the cause and soon-to-be release of it all, undoing your belt buckle as he sucks at the skin on the side of your neck.

You both stumble toward the bed and you fall into it as your knees check the side of the mattress. Baram climbs on top of you and straddles your waist, his weight pleasantly spreading across your hips as he sits himself down. He leans in to slide the jacket from your shoulders and tosses it aside. But as he pulls your shirt up, he lifts only the hem and collar over your head, stretching the fabric behind your neck and down around your back, keeping your forearms wrapped in the sleeves. They are effectively pinned down by your own weight laying on top of the shirt.

He stops to look into your eyes for a moment, and you know he sees the warning you flash him – _I could put you out if I had to_ – you both know you’re stronger than him on equal ground; probably faster, too. His heaving chest reveals exactly how turned on he is by this role-reversal.

He grinds his hips into yours as he slides down for another kiss, and you find yourself fruitlessly reaching up to touch him, hindered by the shirt binding your arms. This entrapment is frustrating, but it only serves to heighten your excitement – this unknown, this uncertainty about where you stand anymore – it quickens the rush of blood through your veins. You squirm beneath him, needy and overcome by lust, as he nips at your earlobes, jawline, collarbone.

At long last, he turns his attention further south, unbuttoning your pants. The gentleness with which he’d just been caressing your neck and shoulders is gone in an instant, as he jerks the fabric downward. He doesn’t discard this item either – and now the movement in your legs is compromised too. You flash him another warning look – you could get out of this if you absolutely needed to – but he’s not worried about that.

He grasps your cock with a firm hand, squeezing gently, running his thumb along the underside, up and down. At this, your countenance finally breaks, and a grunt escapes your throat. His own breathing has grown audible too, and you can feel his arousal pressing into your thigh. You again helplessly flex the muscles in your arms, wishing to tear away the denim from his waist in turn, but your limbs are still trapped. Instead, you throw your head back wait for him to act.

You feel his fingers pulling back your foreskin as he shifts lower down toward the foot of the bed. And then there’s the warmth of his breath on the head of your cock, and then –

You wonder if Baram will ever stop surprising you. Not likely anytime soon – not _tonight_ , at the very least. Gripping the base of your cock, he takes you into his mouth, and you no longer stifle your moans. You ball your hands into fists and arch your back slightly – you could tear this damned shirt in two, or wriggle out of it fairly easily – but Baram stops and pushes you back down. These bindings are symbolic at best, but the sensation of restraint is real enough, and it’s keeping you from automatically grabbing at his hair as he goes back down on you.

Oh, it feels good. You never thought you could be so aroused by something so simple and stupid as this.

But it’s not the mere restriction of your ability to move, it’s _him_ , it’s that _he_ threw you down and tore off your clothes, that _he_ pinned you under his weight as he kissed you all over, that it’s _his_ lips around your cock – this crazy, undisciplined, alcoholic wreck of a man whose eyes caught _yours_ out of all the others in the bar that night a month and a half ago, convinced you to throw your whole known life away and follow him to the other side of the world on a whim – once again, defining _reasons_ seems to be an exercise in absurdity. You don’t know why you love this; you just _do_.

Baram pulls up and crushes his lips against yours, now desperate in his own right. Bracing himself over you with one hand, he undoes his own belt and buttons with the other and wriggles out of his pants, kicking them aside. Then he leans back and pulls off his shirt as well. He hovers over you, completely naked before you for the first time, and once again you curse the entrapment of your hands.

“You can touch me next time,” he says with a sly grin, and runs his fingers dramatically over your face, neck, torso, hips, thighs, just to punctuate a point of dominance.

_Fuck you_ , you breathe through a languid smile, and you consider knocking him in the jaw tomorrow morning as a point of self-sufficience.

He writhes his hips, brushing his cock against yours, gliding his balls along the length of your shaft. You disregard the urge to grab him and pull him down on top of you and instead try to focus on not coming _just yet_ – he’s left you so achingly close to the edge that every touch now drives you closer to the falls.

He sits back on your thighs and pauses for a moment to look you over. And then he begins to stroke himself. You watch as he pleasures himself into a state of vulnerability, his expression shifting from seductive to submissive, and you can’t help but squirm beneath him, _you need to be touched_ –

You turn your head as he spills onto your chest, a few droplets reaching as far as the underside of your chin. His semen puddles in the ridges of your abs, in the crook of your collarbone. His body softens, and then he leans in to kiss you, sucking gently on your bottom lip as he reaches back to finish you off –

You groan and gasp as he brings you closer and closer to climax; the inability to move is nearly unbearable yet _exhilaratingly so, and I am overwhelmed with the desire to bite into his flesh, if my mouth is the only part of me that is allowed to move. But my breath quickens, and I have no time to act upon it as at last I release into his hand, and his kiss muffles my vocal pleasure._

_… Or... what has –?_

_He no longer pins me down._

_The sheets of my bed are tangled about my waist, and I can feel that every muscle in my body has been straining; I relax. My eyes adjust to the dim light of dawn filtering through the curtains to see the blonde woman – the former Imperial General – staring at me from her own bed. A deeply-tanned arm is draped sleepily over her hips. Her expression is impossible to read, but she won’t look away._

  
_A horror washes over me. I turn to face the other side._


	2. An Eye for Your Prize

You miss Doma. Already, it has become a symbol of freedom and exotica, of new beginnings, of risks taken to great reward. You miss that first long train ride across the Mirror Plains, even though you’re absolutely sick of the taste of apples now. The sky looks different here, up North – which isn’t to say it’s not beautiful, but it’s a lot more prone to storms; rain and snow. You would still say you’re happy, but these days you’re hungrier and less comfortable. It’s too cold to leave the boxcar doors open even when it’s dry, and the days spent in darkness take a toll on your mood.

Also regrettable is the fact that you’ve chosen to stow away on a train shipping nothing but textiles.

You and Baram get by on cigarettes and copperwine for a day or two, but your stock doesn’t last long. The Zoan Mountains seem to be endless; the train chugs on for days and days, and you finally grow desperate enough to consider seeking out the conductors’ food stores. But the storms make it too dangerous to travel between cars, and you’re trapped for another day without so much as table scraps. Your luck suddenly turns around as soon as the torrent subsides, however, for when you open the door to your self-imposed cell you see a city in the distance. A couple hours later, you’re wandering the streets of Nikeah.

They call it a bazaar, but you call it _heaven_ for now; your mouths water as you walk down a long aisle of stands selling dried meats and nuts, fresh breads and fruits and vegetables. For a moment you stop to assess the possibility of relieving the merchants of a bit of food without payment, but you quickly note that everyone here has eagle-eyes – they would have to, in this environment – and you agree you do not wish to join the scrawny kid caught stealing pears in whatever sort of prisons they keep around here.

So you trade the things you’d already taken from the train and turn a couple of silk scarves into something more practical. Rucksacks at last laden with food, you head to the piers to have your first meal in about a week by the water’s edge.

Regrets that had begun to creep into the corners of your mind during that awful trip begin to melt away as you watch the sun rise over the eastern mountains. This is most certainly a better life than the one you’d led back home.

* * *

You might like Nikeah even better than Doma, after all. The people here play as hard as they work, and it’s easy to find good food, drink and company on the cheap. Everyone talks very loud and stands very close to one another – likely a product of the market culture – which makes it at once easy to find a new friend and become a lost face in the crowd; whichever you prefer.

But after several days, you need a reprieve. You leave Baram to his audience in the pub to spend some time alone on the roof. Here, the buildings are all squared off – unlike the steeply-peaked houses of the South – roofs serving as an open-air summit on which to relax into the night.

You light a pipe and sit back against a chimney, gazing up at the sky. The stars were always so much less visible in Albrook – or anywhere on the Southern Continent, for that matter. You heard once that it was because of pollution, and though you’ve never fully understood why that was, you’ve never doubted it as fact.

For some reason, on this night, you’re feeling nostalgic. You certainly don’t miss your old life, but you wonder how long this new one can truly last. All these other people, partying and drinking just below you, are doing so to celebrate the end of another workday. They’ve earned this moment, this ritual of relief, after hauling and selling and trading from sun-up till sun-down.

The only reason _you’re_ here is because you’ve taken and taken and taken for the past several weeks without having given a single thing in return. Are you so much better than them? Maybe you should settle down for awhile, get a new job, save up some legitimate cash before continuing on this journey.

Baram would hear nothing of it, no doubt. In fact, he’d probably leave you behind if you decided to go through with such a plan.

You’re not sure your guilt is so heavy just yet.

You hear footsteps approaching from behind as you take another hit from the pipe. Without taking your eyes off the sky, you pass it over to the form sliding down next to you. After a minute, an arm is thrown around your shoulders.

“These are some good times, eh?”

Somehow, Baram’s voice sounds as though he’s standing at the end of a long tunnel.

_Never better_ , you agree.

Perhaps the solution is not to focus on _what_ you’re doing, but from _whom_ you take. Stealing from merchants is like picking the pockets of those who’d just happily passed you drinks in the pub down below. Certainly, there must be others out there who don’t _deserve_ to keep their wealth.

* * *

_We’ve made camp in the woods tonight – it’s been years since I’ve slept outside. I blame the King’s brother – he’s too accustomed to such conditions, and thus he’s careless with his schedule. If anyone would seek my advice, I would’ve planned a route that would always bring us to a town or village by nightfall._

_I suppose I once wished for this opportunity, didn’t I._

_And I might’ve enjoyed this evening in nature had he not disturbed my sleep. Cloaked by the sounds of noisy frogs and insects, I never hear him coming. But when I open my eyes, he’s lying next to me, half-draped over my chest, his arm curled around me like a lover._

_I should be able to move – he’s not holding me down, he’s not crushing my lungs – but like every other time, I am paralyzed, as if bewitched._

_“Get up,” I implore him. “Wake up.”_

_But not only does he remain still, I begin to realize that his back neither rises nor falls in the cadence of breathing. I try to will my limbs to move so that I may jostle him aside, but my efforts, as always, are fruitless._

_“Wake up! Wake up!” I shout this time, knowing that the others might be disturbed by the noise. I don’t care; maybe if I got someone else’s attention they could wake him instead –_

_But no one comes at my call, and still he doesn’t move. I wait, as calmly as I can muster, for several more minutes._

_He’s still not breathing._

_His arm is so heavy across my chest; dead weight._

* * *

Narshe is unbearably cold. You both need warmer clothing, and yes, you’ll have to steal for it. It’s becoming nearly second-nature to you now, which you wouldn’t say you’re proud of, but ignoring the guilt is easier when you don’t get caught.

You wrap yourselves in ridiculous-looking cloaks lifted from the most recent leg of your journey and scour the city for the nearest open door. As always, the pub is your foster home in any new place.

The ice and snow has numbed your tongues, and on this evening you both prefer to listen rather than speak. As you sip overly-spiced hot ciders, Baram nods slightly toward a man at a nearby table. You subtlely turn your attention to his conversation.

“...Yeah, I’m takin’ the hound with me. Jus’ for a couple days; I been needin’ a vacation. Business ha’ been slow anyway. Don’t think I’ miss it.” He clinks his mug against a friend’s and checks a pocket watch. “Got abou’ two more hours till th’ train.”

When the man leaves, Baram follows. You finish your drink and walk out a couple minutes later. It’s not difficult to track his footsteps in the snow, and you catch up to him quickly – to the man from the pub, even quicker still. You both lie in wait as he enters his shop, presumably to gather his things. He’s taking forever – could you have been wrong to assume? The cold creeps into your boots and gloves, and you’re not sure how much longer you can stand to be outside when the man finally returns, dog in tow as promised. You wait another half hour or more before finally slipping out of the alley and to the shop’s back door.

Baram fumbles with his set of lockpicks, fingers stiff like ice. You shoot him warning glares when he curses aloud, dropping them for the third time. And when at last he jimmies the lock, it’s only to find that the door is bolted from the inside.

“Fuck! Are you serious?” he cries, and you don’t even have the strength to cover his mouth.

_Shut up_ , you hiss, exhausted. _Just go around and try the front door; it probably has the same lock. Shouldn’t take as long._

Mercifully, you find this to be true, and soon enough you are both shaking off your cloaks in the closed-up weapons shop.

“ _Gods_ ,” says Baram dramatically, stamping his boots. “Turn that fuckin’ stove on!”

You check the curtains to make sure they’re all closely-drawn and then fire up the stove in the back room. There’s a bed and a small pantry – the man must actually live here. Convenient.

_How long is ‘a couple days’?_ you wonder, rubbing your hands in front of the grate.

“About as much time as we need to catch the next train _out_ of here; I can’t deal with this weather.”

_No shit_.

You turn and sneeze. You’ve been feeling sick for over a day now, with a chill you can’t seem to shake off. You’re just shy of desperate enough to climb into that fire if only you could fit through the stove door.

Baram kicks off his wet clothes and climbs into the bed without hesitation. You consider it somewhat skeptically; it’s far too small for two to sleep comfortably, and the quilt is covered in dog hair. It looks too lived-in for your tastes.

But the floor is cold, even by the stove, and you’re not opposed to getting close to your friend, even if you feel terrible at the moment. Your wet outer-clothes come off too, and you crawl under the covers.

“Don’t cuddle me.”

_I’m fucking sick and freezing cold. Piss off._

You know he’s joking, but you’re in no mood for it. He tsks at you, rolling over and pulling you into his arms. His body feels like a furnace next to yours; you mildly wonder how you haven’t yet gone into hypothermic shock.

In a rare – indeed, the first of its kind – moment of gentleness, he says under his breath, “I’m sorry you feel like shit. We’ll go somewhere nicer as soon as possible,” and he kisses your forehead.

You didn’t think it was possible to sleep in such close quarters, but you don’t remember much else after that. Except that the chill in your bones finally begins to thaw.

* * *

You did it – you finally did it. You made off with a large haul of gil and no consequence aside from suddenly becoming a hell of a lot richer. You rent a place to stay for a month – why not settle down for a bit; take a break from the transience for a few weeks? You’ve been so exhausted lately, and you’ve both lost weight. It’s about time you slowed your pace for a while.

You spend the first few days simply reveling in the small apartment. You can see the city tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that – it’ll still be there. Figaro is vast and varied, but there’s no need to rush through.

_Who paid for this room?_ you muse, rolling onto your back. The bed squeaks a little. All the furniture in here is rather old and rickety, but you can call it _yours_ for the time being.

“We did. What the hell are you going on about now?”

Baram doesn’t like your thought experiments. Hell – you don’t either, but you can’t seem to help getting philosophical once in awhile.

_I mean, who did we take that gil from? What person or company?_

“I really couldn’t care less who _used_ to own it. Finders keepers.” He slides his leg between your knees and buries his nose into the side of your neck. You brush your hair aside. It’s getting quite long.

_Maybe we_ should _care. We need to know our targets better; stop jumping in at random. I just feel like... we could very easily get in over our heads if we haven’t planned out exactly what we’re doing. No one takes a loss like this lightly. This is getting dangerous._

His breath is warm and steady on your skin. For a minute, you wonder if he’s pretending to be asleep.

“No... you’re right. It’s less exciting that way, but you have a point. You’re the brains.”

_Taking unnecessary risks doesn’t have to be your only source of excitement._

You frown. You can’t see his face at the moment, and it’s bothering you. You lift his chin with the tips of your fingers, but his shaggy hair casts his eyes in deep shadow.

“I’d rather live a short, exciting life than a long and boring one.”

His voice sounds like it’s coming from inside your own head. The room feels suddenly and terribly vast, cold, impersonal.

_What was that?_

He sits up on his elbow and looks directly at you.

“I said, _I can give you a short lesson on what excites me._ Or a longer one, if you prefer.” He rolls his eyes. “Gods, way to ruin _that_ one.”

You grab his waist and pull him down on top of you, inciting laughter you can feel through his belly.

_No more talking._

And you kiss him before he can protest.

* * *

_I know he’s there. I can’t feel him, hear him, smell him – but I know tonight is another one of those horrid nights. They’re becoming more and more frequent._

_I cautiously open one eye with the childlike hope that if he doesn’t know I’m awake, he will leave me alone. I would pull the covers over my head if only I could move my arms._

_He’s standing at the foot of the bed, one eye open to mirror mine._

_He stares, unmoving, unyielding –_

_Until my eyes begin to water and his begin to bleed._

* * *

The back of your skull cracks against a brick wall. Your vision fades momentarily, and then the stabbing pain sets in. You throw Baram backwards, the both of you stumbling over broken bottles and other debris, but he tackles you again. He pins you to the side of the building, forearm steady across your collarbone.

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare –”

_Your threats are worthless to me._

He takes a step back, slipping in the rain-slicked mud. He lands on the ground with a crash. You offer a hand but he slaps it away, pulling himself up and storming off into the street.

Normally, you would let him go and have his tantrum, but this fight has come at the height of a terrible couple of weeks. Jidoor Kingdom has greeted you with animosity everywhere you go – in the Capital, the people made no effort to hide the fact that they find you repugnant. One woman even had the audacity to tell you to “go back to Zozo with the rest of the trash,” despite having done nothing to offend her, as far as you could tell. And yet, here in Zozo, the locals flash their knives at you for “talkin’ too rich.” Apparently your Southern slum accent sounds like bourgeois prattle to their ears.

What a miserable country, through and through.

You catch up to Baram and put a hand on his shoulder. He tries to shake you off, but you persist.

_Don’t take your anger at someone else out on me._

“I’m pissed at you, too! You’re such a fucking pushover; I’m disgusted that you’d let that piece of shit walk all over you – _and_ me. Sorry, I defend my own when someone starts talking shit.”

_You think it doesn’t bother me? You gotta choose your battles._ We’re _the outsiders here. You take on one, you very well take on the whole room. I’d rather not wind up dead in a gutter of this shithole of a city just because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut._

Baram is not to be so easily appeased. He shoves you into an alley.

“I’d fight every last one of these assholes for you. I don’t balk at a challenge.” His voice has dropped to a low growl. You back up against a stack of shipping crates.

He moves to grab your collar but you wrap your arms firmly around his upper body, one hand bracing the back of his head. His face is so close to yours that your eyes can’t even focus on him. A heated second later, he moves in.

He bites down on your bottom lip, breaking the skin. You expel a sharp noise in response, but it feels good, as though all this pent-up anger is seeping out in the mess of blood that smears down your chin and his.

You grasp the roots of his hair and tighten your fist; you see a glistening about his eyes. Freeing his hands from between your chests, he braces himself on the crates and roughly pushes his body against yours. He’s getting hard. So are you.

You move one hand down to the small of his back and kiss him recklessly; he tastes like blood and sweat and acid rain. You feel his teeth scrape against your jaw as he slips his leg between your thighs, pressing into your crotch. A breathy groan escapes your lips. Involuntarily, you arch your hips forward.

The rain begins to pick up, saturating your hair and clothes. The thought that you should take this elsewhere is fleeting; you’re both already soaked, and _damn_ this place and its people – this dirty alley is just as good as any you’ll find around here. You shed your jacket and he quickly shoves you back against the neighboring wall, grinding himself upon you so that your back grates down the coarse brick façade. Through the thin fabric of your shirt, you can feel your flesh tearing. You press your lips closed tightly, refusing to vocalize the pain. It’s such exhilarant agony, though – any other time, you’d be letting him have it, indulging you both in the sound of your own voice – but you’re not done with this fight just yet. You look him directly in the eye, as straight-faced as you can possibly muster; a silent response to the challenge of pride versus pride.

He guides your head to the right, exposing the side of your neck. With his free hand, he gropes into your pockets, fondling you before migrating to the holster that sheaths your knives. He hesitates intentionally, keeping your head held aside, before unhooking a single shuriken from your belt.

He runs one of its points from your earlobe to your collarbone – lightly, gently, as though testing you. The stress that had so recently been released begins to build up once again, and _quickly_ , but you remain still and complacent, watching for subtle changes in his expression. He presses the star to the pulse point below your jaw; it throbs as your heart rate continues to increase. For a moment, neither of you move.

Then he lowers his hand to yours, slipping the weapon between the fingers of its rightful owner.

After all these months, Baram still manages to genuinely surprise you.

You spend a minute considering-but-not-thinking. And then you raise the star to your lips and slacken your mouth. The metal tastes as sweet as the sting of the cut as you curl your tongue up one razor-sharp blade, and though the wound is superficial, the blood pours freely. You savor the look in his eyes as you kiss him, tangling your incision about his tongue, insisting he drink of your essence.

His body grows vaguely limp and his breathing audibly quickens. You begin to undo your belt as he smothers you with wet, bloody kisses, and then he eagerly falls to his knees, pulling at your waistband. As he takes you into his mouth, you reach to steady yourself against the boxes once more with one hand, weaving your fingers around his bandana with the other. Your long hair, soaked with rain, clings to your face as you watch him through blurred vision, pleasuring you without abandon in this repulsive alleyway.

You come more quickly than you’d expected. He drinks you in for a second time.

Despite suddenly-weak knees, you grasp his arm and pull him back to his feet. As you bring his face closer to yours, the only thing you can read from him is _waiting_. Waiting for you to make the next move.

_You weren’t lying._

“Of course not.”

You’re unsure what to make of it. You still think he’s a damn idealistic fool. But you’re going to stick to your own principles and keep your mouth shut on this one, too.

Nevertheless, something has shifted.

He turns around, and you coax him backward into your arms. But as you slide one hand down and reach for his belt, he pulls away.

“I’ll find you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder. He re-ties his loosened bandana before walking back out to the street.

* * *

There’s so much blood. His face is almost completely covered; it’s soaked into the collar of his shirt, it mats the front of his hair. He lets out a gurgling scream and struggles against the two men holding him back, thrashing and kicking. A third man puts a knife to his left eye, which is already obscured by tattered flesh and sinew.

“Keep movin’ around like that and you’ll finish this job yourself.”

“I didn’t fucking do anything to you! Let me go!” Baram cries, voice breaking in a way you’ve never heard before. You pull out your own best knife as you approach.

The third man looks as though he’s about to laugh, but he is prematurely silenced when your blade suddenly sprouts from his bicep. A shuriken quickly follows, slicing one of the other men’s shoulders as it flies by.

In the temporary state of confusion, Baram has a chance to free himself, but he merely collapses to the ground. You dive in to land a punch on someone’s temple; he goes down immediately. Someone else jumps on your back and as you struggle, the last man falls as well, the back of his ankle severed by a dropped blade now clutched in Baram’s shaking hand. When he sees that he is now outnumbered, the last assailant flees.

You hoist Baram onto your shoulder, abandoning your thrown weapons and heading straight for the chocobo stables you’d seen a couple blocks away.

“Clyde...” he gasps. “I can’t see...”

_We’re getting the fuck out of here, just hang on!_

The streets seem to be made of quicksand. You feel as though your heart is going to burst from your chest in anxiety – can’t you run any faster? Someone’s going to come after you! You try picking up your feet higher – maybe jumping will be more effective. This is ridiculous. What is tethering you to the ground?

“I can’t see...”

The pressure builds in your knees; you can barely stand up straight anymore. You concede to crawl, Baram hanging off your back. This is better – your arms are stronger than your legs – this will get you both to safety. You can swim to the stables.

“I can’t see...!”

But your arms aren’t strong enough for two. You buckle under his weight.

_I can’t see!_

It feels like you’re drowning. It’s started raining again, but only into your nose and mouth.

* * *

  _I can’t open my eyes._

_I hear hushed voices all around me, but it’s as though my lids are glued shut._

* * *

“It’s throbbing,” he slurs.

You lift your head from your chest. Your neck aches terribly.

“Pulsating. Oh, I don’t like it. I’m gonna be sick.”

_Don’t touch it._

“What the fuck happened?”

_I don’t know. You got jumped._

He sighs miserably. “Where’s our money? Did they take our money?”

_It was on me; they didn’t take it._

For a moment, you think he’s dozed off again.

“What do we have left?”

_Your life._

“Well... _that’s_ not worth very much.”

If he wasn’t full of expensive drugs to numb his existing pain, you would be tempted to beat him for that.

_You lost an eye. Doctor said it looked like you’d been hit with an explosive. Lost a lot of blood, too; abrasions and knife wounds on top of that. Did you know they charge by the stitch?_

“Cherry bomb,” he says, sinking back into the pillows. “Fucker had a cherry bomb... threw it right in my face. Don’t know what I did to make him so mad.”

_Probably running your mouth, as usual._

His head lolls in your direction. “Does that mean I deserved it?”

You look at him for a minute. His head and half his face are wrapped in bandages, flecks of crimson dotting the linen over his left eye. His lip is busted, skin mottled with angry bruises, and though he hasn’t realized it yet, you know that the dressings around his torso hold tight a cracked rib. You can see that his breathing is already labored.

_No. You were just defending your own. You should be proud of that._

He tries to laugh softly, but it quickly turns into a wince and a groan.

_I should’ve been at your side from the start._

…

  
… … He says something here, doesn’t he? 


	3. The Failure of His Dreams

“This place just keeps getting worse and worse. Makes me want to put a knife to my _other_ eye seeing the way this city’s going.”

Baram sneers. He’s been in a sour mood ever since you got off the boat – but to be fair, you’re not terribly happy to be back on the Southern Continent either. It was a marginally better alternative to staying in Jidoor Kingdom.

_It seems all right here,_ you shrug. _You remember what Albrook looked like?_

“It’s not a pissing contest about whose hometown is dirtier on the _surface_ – the problem here is it’s going the way of that hellhole we just got out of. The Duke of Maranda – ugly son of a bitch who took over about three years ago – has made it his personal mission to turn as much of the capital city into a place he ‘wouldn’t be embarrassed to visit’ himself, even though he never leaves his golden palace on the eastern coast.”

_So they’re fixing up the place – how is that a bad thing?_

Baram sends a wad of spit flying onto the storefront window of a jewelry shop.

“It’s not a charity service. It’s a way of forcing out the riffraff. This street used to be lined with cheap, shitty apartments – the kind people like you and me could afford on a laborer’s wages. Where do those people go when upper- and middle-class pricks buy out the land, remodel into luxury flats and start charging five times the rent?”

You wonder if the inspiration for this sudden tirade is the fact that you’re perhaps standing in front of his old address, but you refrain from asking.

“The slums are getting pushed farther and farther away from the city center. Wage workers have to waste so much time traveling to and from their day jobs now and everyone’s more miserable than ever. Pretty soon we’re gonna have our own Zozo down here; I guarantee it.”

The sun is casting long shadows ahead of your footsteps, but otherwise the street is largely empty at this hour. Does being rich mean having no desire to leave your house in the evening? After a long, hard day of signing papers and shopping for jewels, is there nothing to do once the stores close up for the day?

Or maybe there is something to be said about living in a space that’s nice enough to actually be able to enjoy its atmosphere. But you wouldn’t know what that’s like.

You take a swig of cheap copperwine and pass it over. The dregs burn the worst going down. Baram drains the bottle and hurls it at a set of pristine sandstone steps leading up to what must be one of these new, expensive living spaces. You look over your shoulder as shards of glass scatter into the street, but no one’s following you. There is definitely a strange air of desertion hanging about this place.

“I’m so sick of seeing the richest few get everything handed to them on a silver platter. These people don’t know what it’s like to really suffer.” He absently scratches at the patch over his ruined eye. “I’d love to see this city go up in flames.”

* * *

_The paralysis sets in once again, but he doesn’t seem to be here. My eyes dart around the room only to find nothing but darkness, silence. This is the first time in ages that I’ve been alone during these attacks. Somehow, this is no comfort to me._

_Interceptor sleeps at my feet and I listen desperately for the sound of his breathing. Why do I hear nothing? It’s too quiet!_

_Panic flutters through my veins like rats skittering in a maze._

* * *

There were so many moments like this one, but they’re so hard to remember – these moments where absolutely nothing happens, where you sit in silence as the hours pass steadily by, legs dangling off the side of a bridge, lazily tossing stones into a babbling creek below. Sometimes you smoke, sometimes you kiss, but most of the time you’re content to do nothing at all – to relish this life you’ve created for yourselves, answering to no one but your own selfish whims.

There were so many days like this – too many to even think of counting – where you simply _exist_ in each other’s company, and joyously so – where you know you’re in love without ever defining it as such – where you go to sleep secure and satisfied knowing that he will always be close by when you awaken. It’s not something you feel the need to discuss, or declare, because the words have never so much as fluttered through your mind, much less danced on the tip of your tongue – and in this very moment you wouldn’t know what to call it anyway. But you know that you’re _happy_ – and for some reason your heart aches when you think about it too much, so you know that it’s best left unsaid.

He takes a hit off his pipe and holds it in for a few seconds. Then he beckons you closer and exhales into your mouth, the taste of smoke and liquor swirling languidly over your tongue. Your lips linger over his, and he sucks at your flesh; the gradual unfolding of a slow and sensual embrace.

The sun rises and falls; another day passes you by. You know this ignorant bliss can’t last forever, but for now, you can’t imagine living any other way.

* * *

_He’s still not here._

__

_I still can’t move._

__

_Still, no signs of life around me._

__

_I begin to hyperventilate._

* * *

After his brush with death in Zozo, you’d have thought Baram would want to be more cautious, at least for a little while. But even you can’t help but grin as the wind whips your face so fast you can barely keep your eyes open. You cling to the top of a passenger car chugging steadily northwest, your friend crouching by your side. You agree now that taking risks – throwing your body around as though it weren’t such a fragile vessel – is truly the greatest source of excitement and pleasure you’ve ever known in your life.

“I’ll give this place one thing – we have the fastest trains in the world here in the South!” he shouts, barely audible over the wind.

The two of you have finally decided to bring some order to your lifestyle – not so far as to go straight, of course, but you know you’re both skilled enough to get away with more than mere petty theft. And your own twisted conscience is appeased by the resolve to focus on taking only from the kinds of people who originally profited from your oppression. Inside the car below, wealthy patrons gorge themselves on excesses of every kind, simply because they can. It was your own brute strength and sweat that built railroads such as these, and yet at the end of the day you only ever had enough money to fill your stomach with rotting food and cheap ale.

These tracks are _your_ territory, and you’re finally going to reap what you’ve sown.

“I swear to the gods that these passenger cars were designed for the benefit of thieves,” Baram laughs as he pries off a plate that the two of you had loosened the night before, while the train was docked in a suburban station in the northern Maranda territory.

_No, they were_ built _by people just waiting for an opportunity to take back what was rightfully theirs._

He winks at you before plunging his upper half into the opening that leads directly into the enclosed overhead luggage racks. After a minute, he pulls out bearing several coin bags, gleaned from purses and suitcases supposedly safely stowed away for the duration of this trip. You throw them into your rucksack and replace the plate, screwing it back into place before moving onto the next section. You continue this pattern until the train begins to slow its pace as it nears the first Tzen station. Then you shuffle back to the blind spot between the last passenger car and the caboose, toss your winnings overboard, and leap into a roll as you hit the ground, dry grasses pricking and slicing you along the way.

You shake off the sting of the landing as you watch the train leave you in its dust. You’re still a good eight to ten miles away from capital city; the chances of anyone finding this place are slim to none.

Before you even begin to hike back to where you’d dropped your prize, you take a moment to indulge in celebration. Baram grabs you round the neck and pulls you into a rough hug, practically dancing.

“Can you fuckin’ believe it? We did it! We really did it!”

You laugh into his shoulder, mussing up his hair with one hand.

_There’s got to be at least a million gil in there!_

“You think so? Holy shit!”

And you practically skip off like children to retrieve your bags of stolen gil. A bit of counting and mental multiplication reassures you that your estimate is not far off.

“I don’t even know what to _do_ with this kind of money,” says Baram, his expression suddenly vacant. You begin digging into the earth with a small shovel, not yet quite as affected by the shock of immediate wealth. You both need to get this money hidden until you can come back with chocobos in tow.

_We can get the hell off this continent for good. Let’s go back East and forget about this place entirely._

“Yeah... yeah! Oh my god, Clyde, we can bury it in a bit – relax for a second!”

He grasps your upper arms. You drop the shovel and look up at him – you’ve never seen a wider smile cross his face.

More pressing matters had been occupying your mind just a moment ago, but without further hesitation, you grab him and pull him down atop you in the grass. He crushes his lips against yours and your head swims, dizzy from elation and lack of sleep. You marvel at the way he can excite you with such little fanfare.

As he kisses along your jawline, wantonly pressing his hips into yours, you run your hand through his hair. Your fingers brush the fabric covering his left eye. He pulls away.

“You’re at an unfair advantage,” he says thoughtfully. You wait to see where he’ll take this.

He unties his bandana and stretches it over your eyes, knotting it behind your head. You hear him chuckle softly.

“One eye between the two of us; just enough to watch our backs.” His fingertips glide along the side of your neck and tease the fraying collar of your shirt. Another hand appears at your waist, sliding the fabric up your torso and then tracing the contours of your abs, ribs, pecs. The warmth of a tongue slides over your nipple, followed by a chill as it disappears, leaving you to harden in the outside air.

You can feel the goosebumps raising all over your flesh.

A hand drags over the fly of your pants, cupping and fondling you through the denim. A kiss is placed upon your bellybutton, followed by another just below it, then another, then another...

Your legs are suddenly pushed upwards, calves resting on what feels like his shoulders. You splay your arms out to the sides, grasping at weeds and grasses as though to steady yourself. A light pressure butts up against your crotch and your knees are guided closer toward your chest.

_Are you gonna fuck me?_ you gasp, at once nervous but curious.

His only response is to hum a singsong laugh, and touch his lips to yours. The muscles in your thighs stretch painfully as he bends over you, folding your legs in on yourself.

But then he releases you, and you feel him crawl out from between your legs. The clink of metal and the zip of a fly can be heard. Then his weight gently lowers down onto your chest. His skin is hot against yours.

He touches your chin, rubbing his thumb along your parted lips, off to the side and down your cheek. His fingers return, two slipping into your mouth, playing with your tongue. He slides them out, drawing saliva down your chin, and then back in again, teasing, tantalizing. Your pulse quickens. The weight lifts from your chest.

He nudges your mouth open wider, and then fills it with himself.

The length of his shaft, half-hard, slowly glides over your tongue, testing this territory. You purse your lips as he pulls backward, feeling his excitement grow on the way out. With his next ease in, you can barely take his entirety, and with the third, your throat hitches. You inhale deeply through your nose and clutch his thighs from behind.

He lets out a groan as he finds a steady rhythm and you hum along, your own body responding to his pleasure. His cock twitches; you dig your nails into his skin.

A couple thrusts go in a bit too deep and you sputter, chest heaving, trying to push him away. He eases back but continues the motion, whispering something you don’t quite catch. Another half a minute goes by before he releases you at last, diving down and kissing the sides of your neck so hard it stings. You gasp for breath and arch your back desperately.

As he sucks on your earlobe, you reach down to undo your buttons and shimmy out of your pants. He grabs your hand and coaxes your fingers around your own throbbing shaft, holding on as you begin to stroke yourself.

“I want to hear you scream,” he growls, breath tickling your ear.

_Then you’re gonna have to work harder than that._

With his free hand, he drags his fingers down your neck as he slides back between your legs. You begin to hear the wet sounds of him pleasuring himself as he writhes against you, moaning loudly to put on an aural show. It’s not long before he comes, spilling directly onto your crotch. He brushes your hand away from your cock and takes it into his mouth hungrily.

And then you feel the pressure of his cum-slicked finger against your opening. You blindly grab at his hair, pulling the roots as he presses in.

It hurts, or maybe it’s just uncomfortable – your senses are conflicted by the rapturous feeling of his tongue flicking the head of your cock. You groan, then take a deep breath, and you will your body to relax as he slides another finger gently in and out. You wish you could watch him work, but his blindfold remains tight around your eyes, and you don’t dare remove it yourself.

At some point, the odd discomfort becomes exhilarating – or perhaps it’s completely given way to a new form of pleasure; you can’t quite distinguish. Every sensation begins to melt and swirl together as you approach your climax, exclamations vibrating through your vocal chords, building up to something ecstatic and explosive –

And then he rips the blindfold off,

sparks fly across your field of vision as your eyes adjust to more darkness, even though you were sure you were fucking in broad daylight,

and your muscles stiffen, breath dies within your lungs, a bodily weight once again heavy upon your chest,

and you see his face mere inches from your own,

_his one good eye unnaturally wide, the other obscured by shadow,_

_and blood pours from his mouth endlessly,_

_the hiss of rushing liquid filling the room._

_I only_ wish _I could scream._

* * *

_I’m so very tired. Sleep no longer provides rest._

* * *

One more. Just _one more_ good haul, and then you’ll quit. You’ll catch a ship back East and settle somewhere near Doma or Nikeah for awhile. Maybe even stop along the Veldt – stock up on supplies and forego society altogether. It _all_ sounds good; it’s all preferable to this polluted, corrupt Empire. But the thrill of the grift is still a little too fresh in your minds. It was so _easy_ , so _seamless_ – you have to do it one more time. Throw another knife to prove you can really hit the bullseye.

You’ve spent the past three weeks laying low, prior winnings safely stowed away. You’ve hopped aboard a countless number of trains, riding south to Vector, down to Albrook, back toward Maranda and around again. You’ve listened and watched carefully; pocketed a few schedules and itineraries. You’ve observed patterns and noted opportunities. You’re ready to make _one more hit_ , and then run.

If your calculations are correct, the contents of the approaching train should be valuable yet vulnerable, so as to remain inconspicuous. A string of gondolas hauling coal pass you by. To the casual observer, it looks like every other mid-week shipment from Tzen, chugging its way south in the middle of the night. Its engines have slowed to bring it safely through the winding mountains, where you’ve camped since evacuating a northbound train a day and a half before. But your patience and care in planning will soon pay off. With one last glance at each other, you leap from a rocky crag onto the roof of a boxcar.

You slink around the perimeter while Baram takes a ladder down the back. No guards as far as you can see... you send him the signal and he unlatches the door, disappearing inside. A minute later he returns, motioning for you to follow.

He ignites a spark lamp as you shut the door behind you. The interior is stacked with wooden crates.

“Well? Let’s see what’s in here.” You hand him a crowbar and the two of you set to work.

But you are quickly disappointed. Memories of your very first train ride flash by as you find every box filled with produce.

_Would it be buried in the crates in the back?_

“Nah, that would be an obvious drug-smuggling tactic, and I don’t think that’s the kind of freight we’re dealing with. It’s either gonna be real obvious – because they have no fear of being searched – or so well hidden we’ll never find it anyway. I say we move onto the next car.”

And so you go on down the line, snaking around boxcars, squinting into shadows, pulling up nothing but innocuous goods for legitimate trade, and your frustration grows palpable. All this work, all this preparation for absolutely nothing? Just a few weeks ago, you were ready to call yourselves the _Great Train Robbers of the Century_ , and now you feel like a couple of fools. You should go back, pick up your million gil and run off with your tails between your legs. This was an embarrassing waste of time.

The first twinge of light can be seen on the horizon. Your time to blindly search this train is rapidly dwindling.

But as you perch atop the last fruitless boxcar, something finally catches your eye. You grab for Baram’s arm.

_It’s in the gondolas._

“Buried under coal?” he asks skeptically. “We’ll never dig anything out at this rate.”

_No, the coal is the decoy. These aren’t real gondolas; they’re Tzen-style boxcars altered to look like them._

“So... there’s just a layer of coal sitting on – what, the lowered ceiling of a compartment below?”

_Exactly. Why else would there be a hinged door there?_

Sure enough, the back of the car boasts a small door that would normally be unnecessary for this type of railcar.

Baram shakes his head. “Shit. That _is_ clever. Well, let’s hurry!”

But you stop him with one arm.

_There’s a guard at the front of the car._

“I can barely see,” he says, one good eye squinting.

An epaulet and the tip of a crossbow just barely stick out from around the corner. There is a guard’s perch on your end too, and climbing staples mounted around the sides. Something important is definitely inside this car.

You wait a few minutes to see if he patrols, and when you observe no movement, Baram dives in. He struggles with the latch; a glance back in your direction tells you that it’s locked, but he pulls out his set of picks and sets to work. You anxiously keep your eyes on the guard at the opposite end of the car.

At last, Baram breaks through and pulls the door open. The squeak of its hinges makes you cringe, but you still seem to be in the clear. Baram waves you over, and with one last wary glance toward the guard you cautiously descend the ladder to join him. The door closes behind you.

“I’m about out of sparks...” You can hear him rustling through his pouches and pockets. Then the hiss of a flare breaks the rumbling silence as a flash of blinding light explodes around the metal room.

The two of you simultaneously recoil in horror, Baram more audibly so.

Your eyes begin to adjust as the lamp evens out. Its flame reflects upon hundreds of metal facets mere inches from your face, and your breath catches in your throat.

A great, headless beast fills your field of vision. Two more stand ominously behind it.

_What_ is _this? Some kind of weapon?_

Baram continues to stare, frozen, mouth agape. You nudge his shoulder, and he swings the lamp around, revealing that the steel monster stands on two legs; two clawlike arms at its sides.

_Maybe it’s supposed to be... piloted? Someone sits in that seat up there and makes it walk?_

The place where its head should be does indeed appear to be a cockpit. In the center of its chest – the massive barrel of some kind of gun. Smaller compartments for other weaponry line its shoulders, arms and legs.

The longer you look, the more surreal it becomes. You feel as though it could come alive at any second, thrashing about, trying to escape from its iron cage. The open seat would reveal itself to be its gaping maw, eager to close in on itself and swallow down anyone who dares to get in its way. Flames and electricity would stream from its cannons, engulfing you both and turning this suddenly too-small boxcar into a red-hot tomb.

“We gotta get out of here. We gotta get off this train,” Baram stammers. His voice sounds strange; stripped of its usual arrogant twang. “We’re so fucked if we get caught in here. This is... this has to be some military secret; some new weapon for the Empire. We’re heading straight to the Capital with that giant fucking fortress – oh my god, Clyde, we’re dead!”

You grip his arms, pull his face close to your own. The spark lamp distorts his features.

_Calm down! We’ll just make our exit like we always do. Don’t let a guilty conscience get in the way; it’ll be fine._

But even you can feel the doubt creeping up your spine. It’s difficult not to flinch at every sound you _think_ you might be hearing above the constant grinding of the wheels along the track. You hold him steady until his panic appears to subside. Then with a silent nod, you both turn back toward the door. Baram extinguishes the lamp.

You hesitate for a second as you grip the handle, fingering loose a small object from your belt with your other hand. Taking a deep breath, you swing the door open as forcefully as possible, no longer concerned with stealth, as you are greeted – your worst fears confirmed – by a guard aiming his crossbow between your eyes.

The door must have startled him, because you are able to act before the guard. You hurl a smoke bomb at him point-blank and he falters back into the railing as it explodes in his face. A yelp and a clang can be heard as you leap over the rail to the next car back and scramble up the ladder, but you don’t dare look over your shoulder just yet. When Baram joins you atop the boxcar, you quickly assess that the guard must have fallen overboard.

The tracks here are surrounded by steep ravines, which in turn are filled with only gods-know-what. Trees with twisted trunks and clusters of thick shrubbery line the ground all around you. It would be morbidly dangerous to make a leap of faith now, especially at this speed. But more guards are now emerging from their hidden posts around the gondolas and scaling across the sides of the cars toward the source of the commotion. There isn’t much time to wait for a better opportunity.

At least they’ve designed these cars to prioritize inconspicuousness over safety. You send a shuriken into the shoulder of the closest guard who, in his shock, releases his grip on the climbing staples and drops off the side of the car. Waving Baram on, you hurry to the back of your boxcar, where you launch off the end and land on the top of the next car back without a second thought.

You turn back to find Baram hesitating.

_Come on!_ you scream. _You can easily make it!_

“But my...!” he gestures at his eyepatch. His remaining eye doesn’t allow him to judge distance very well.

_Just fucking jump as far as you can! Goddammit, you’ve gotta move!_

With a look of numb resolution, he rears back in preparation. But just as he begins to throw his weight forward, a crossbolt catches him in the leg, and he stumbles, falling into the space between the railcars.

Your stomach drops as you peer over the edge.

He’s mercifully landed on the small docking platform, but his body is twisted. He must have hit the railing on the way down.

Another bolt whizzes by as you scramble down the ladder and hoist him up. He could already be dead – you don’t even have time to consider it – but you wrap your arms tightly around him, and in an adrenaline-fueled burst of madness and energy, hurl the both of you over the railing. Your shoulder cracks as it hits the ground and you roll down the steep decline at a nauseating pace, branches and thorns tearing you to pieces along the way. When at last your momentum runs out, you are both frighteningly broken and bloodied.

You immediately shift to your side and vomit up the contents of your stomach. Then, wiping the sweat and debris from your eyes, you search for Baram in the forest-filtered light of dawn.

He is lying nearby, both legs grossly fractured. Bone protrudes from punctured flesh in at least one place. His body is visibly trembling.

_Fuck, Baram!_ You crawl over to him and gently ease him onto his back, smoothing the hair out of his face. _Oh my god, I’ll... I’ll get you to town, it’ll be okay...!_

“N-no it won’t,” he sputters, blood spilling from the corners of his mouth. “I’ll n-never make it. It hurts so bad, I just want to die–!” His words end in a shriek of agony and the trembling becomes more violent.

_I can’t just leave you!_ Your vision begins to blur. A wavering groan bellows from his throat as he squirms beneath you.

“Y-you can’t... help... me... y-you have t-to go...” You can _hear_ his pain with every hissing breath he takes between clenched teeth. “Please... put me... _just kill me_...”

His name escapes your lips, but it sounds so distant.

“They’ll c-come and... I’d rather die by your hand. Do it for me, Clyde!” he sobs, and it suddenly feels as though you’re floating above yourself, watching this scene unfold like a terrible stage play. He grabs at you with shaking hands, catching locks of your hair in his fingers and pulling you closer. For a moment, you’re afraid that you’ll sink right into him, that his body will somehow absorb your own and you will both lay defenseless, convulsing, bleeding out until pain overwhelms you and you both die as a single twisted corpse, alone in the woods.

For the first time in your life, _death_ becomes your greatest fear. You fear his. You fear your own. Survival instinct takes center stage; you are consumed by the animalistic drive to _protect yourself at all cost._

But even animals defend their own, don’t they?

Your fingers wrap around the hilt of his knife, but your arm refuses to move.

Baram chokes and sputters more blood. You try to turn him back on his side, but his seizing muscles prove stronger than your broken will and he unintentionally knocks you back.

“It hurts so bad... kill me, Clyde...”

He transforms into a blur of fabric and leather and blood before your eyes as tears cloud your vision. Your voice has died within your throat; your limbs are frozen in place. You would slay a thousand innocent men if it could save your friend, but this – this request has rendered you helpless.

Loving him means giving him the mercy he deserves. But your heart cannot bear this burden – even for him.

You will fail him this time. You will throw away everything you ever built up together – the trust, the integrity – all because your own selfishness will prevail in this one dreadful moment.

The sound of heavy footfalls reaches your ears. The guards have tracked your path down the ravine and will be upon you shortly.

“Don’t you _fucking_ let them get us,” he growls. “Finish me off and run.”

All you have to do is plunge the blade into his chest. Or slit his throat. Which would be quicker? More efficient?

A branch snaps, and at last you tear your gaze away from him, looking back the way you came. You can see movement in the distance.

And then your legs straighten as though of their own volition, and you start to run. Baram’s knife is in your hand, but the blade is still clean.

“Clyde!” he screams, and the whistle of a crossbolt pierces the air.

Already, you’re horrified at yourself. But you can’t stop running. You’re no longer at all in control of your own body.

“ _Why–?_ ”

The click of a trigger; another bolt releases. Then another, and yet another. And probably more, but now all you hear are your own footsteps beating a path through the woods.

And your own heaving breath in your chest.

And the blood pumping in your ears.

_Why_ , indeed.  
  
  
You fucking coward.


	4. The Last Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warning in this chapter for brief scene involving violence against animals._

You have completely lost sense of reality. When you could no longer run, you continued to walk. When you could no longer walk, you kept walking anyway. Your legs are numb, your stomach is folding in on itself. Your eyes feel as though they’ve been blasted with sand. Your clothes are tattered; dried blood mats your hair, crumbles off your skin.

If you could have so much as formed a coherent thought as you cut a wild, serpentine path through the woods, you’d have long since realized you should have thrown yourself into a river, off a bridge, in front of a train, upon the knife still clutched in your hand. Hours ago you fled from death – now you wish nothing but the most gruesome end for yourself. You’ve hated life before, but never like this. You want to die. You _deserve_ to die.

The sun has risen, but the sky is ugly and overcast – it’s that urban pollution again, isn’t it. You walk amongst the farthest outskirts of Vector; its hideous steel fortress towers over the city in the distance. Along these streets, factories belch clouds of black smoke into the air. This city is as wretched and odious as you feel.

You barely take note of the people who pass you by, though it’s likely they don’t give you a second glance either. Of all the major city slums in the world, those of Vector have to be the worst. These people – the Emperor’s rejects – have all been beaten into submission – they’ve lost the will to dissent; to fight to better themselves.

Finally, someplace you belong.

Your feet at last come to a halt. As you stare blankly at the ground, a dull panic begins to rise from your belly, into your chest, prickling at the tips of your earlobes. It’s as if you hadn’t quite understood the weight of what had happened until just now – like you were still hoping it was just a vivid nightmare, and the scene would eventually fade as you rolled over and opened your eyes. And there he’d be, at your side, sleeping soundly, his breathing low and steady. You would touch his cheek, brush his hair away from his forehead – and he would stir and turn his head to the other side, toward you. You would put an arm around him and let your lids fall as you dozed a little longer. Just long enough to replace that memory with a pleasanter dream.

But if you could control your dreams – much less reality – you would have far fewer problems in your life.

(Something turns and laughs at you with this thought. You couldn’t come up with a better joke if you really tried.)

The drones that shuffle down the street all look like him. That bandana – that vest – that sandy brown hair – has he come back? Did he make it after all? Maybe his legs _weren’t_ broken – maybe he followed you all the way here, just on your heels the whole time. He’s relieved to see you – _“That was close!”_ he says. No – he’s angry. Furious. _“I can’t believe you ditched me! I almost died back there!”_ He’ll leave you now for sure. Once was a fight, a fuck and forgiveness. He lost an eye because you left his side. Twice – there’s no reason for him to accept your betrayal a second time. Now he’s lost his life!

_No... Oh, gods, no!_

A high-pitched squeal catches your attention and delays the oncoming anxiety attack. Any distraction is good, yes – and you dazedly follow the sound to its source. As you turn a corner, you find a single, disheveled man – features twisted up in a mix of sadistic pleasure and fury – in the midst of a gruesome scene: a bitch and her litter of puppies lay mangled in a pile of their own remains.

The young man kicks one of the helpless creatures, shaky and barely clinging to life as it is. The pup emits another infantile bellow as it shudders into the arms of death.

And then something finally snaps. You act without consciousness; your body once again moves of its own accord. You silently grab the man from behind, wrapping an arm around his chest, holding a blade to his throat with the other. You allow him a split-second to appreciate his fate before slicing through skin and muscle and vein, blood spilling onto your sleeves.

How quickly a man becomes a corpse – _that wasn’t so difficult_. You drop his dead weight to the ground without remorse.

Observing the scene before you, you note how thick the silence has become. The air tastes like sweat and blood; salty, metallic. Stifling. The factory-smoke reeks of sulfur.

One of the young dogs is still alive; its body shivers amid its cold brothers and sisters. It’s the biggest of the litter, a black-and-tan Doberman with cropped ears and its tail between its legs. It raises its head to look at you, but you’d be lying if you said you could read a message in its eyes – it’s a dog; you’re a man, and barely that. There is no deep connection here.

But it’s alive (alone), and so are you, and if that’s the only thing you have in common, it’s enough to implore you to bend over and scoop the creature into your arms. The pup whines as you carry it away from its family, and you intend only to keep it along until you can release it somewhere safer. And by then, perhaps, you’ll have decided on an efficient way to die (alone).

Strange how these chance meetings can change one’s life significantly, though. Before you can settle on a satisfying plan to remove yourself from this world, you will realize that you once again have a companion who relies on you – whose company soothes you.

* * *

_Her appearance before me is startling. It’s unsettling enough to see my face in her own, but even more so when I’m not expecting her to be around. The door to my cabin on the airship is open; Interceptor no longer at the foot of my bed. She peers at me so closely, for a second I fear that my mask has melted away._

_“You were making sounds in your sleep,” she says, frowning. “Interceptor was scratching at the door. Probably just a nightmare. You scared that we’re going to the Tower today?”_

_Without waiting for my answer, she walks over to the vanity. “I’m not. Not really. Things’ll just get worse if we don’t go, so there’s no point in being afraid.”_

_I sit up and watch her prod at my belongings on the dresser._

_“You have a lot of weapons. How do you carry them all? Can I have this one?” She holds up an old knife with a tattered hilt. I know which one it is. Its blade has grown dull._

_I consider it for a moment before confirming that it’s hers._

_“That knife is for killing men,” I say. “Don’t use it for anything else.”_

_She looks at me with the most practical expression upon her face._

_“I’ll only use it to kill bad men, of course.”_

_The words spill from my mouth before I can stop them –_

_“Good men are harder to kill anyway.”_

_She doesn’t respond. But we’re spared the uncomfortable silence when her grandfather calls her name from the hall, and she disappears from my room. Interceptor trots back up to me expectantly._

_“Go with the girl today,” I tell him, placing a hand on his head. “Stay with her no matter what.”_

_He hesitates, then licks my hand before hurrying out the door after her._

_I take in a deep breath and exhale slowly._

* * *

Locating a free booth, you ease onto a plush velvet cushion. You’re still unused to such finery, and sitting here makes you self-conscious. You look around at the others filing into the aisle, but no one pays you any mind. They’re all lost in their own worlds.

You’re suddenly nervous with anticipation, butterflies noisily fluttering around your stomach. You catch your reflection in the window – you look so _old_ now; will he even recognize you? The skin sags below your eyes; lines crease your forehead and accentuate the corners of your mouth. You have a few more scars now, too. You absently run your fingers through your hair, already flecked with a bit of grey.

It seems like ages before you hear the door clang shut and a distant whistle blow. Ah, this waiting has been the worst of it! The _pain_ hadn’t lasted all that long before it was over, and already you can barely remember it. That brings a sense of relief. You hope he’s long since forgotten it too.

There’s still a chance he might be angry, but that’s okay. That’s to be expected.

Disappointment would be more difficult to handle. Running off with that clean blade wasn’t your last mistake in thirteen years, by far.

_Delight_ , though... well, you can only hope.

You will find out soon enough. No doubt the reunion will be bittersweet.

You feel a rumbling vibration as the car begins to move forward. Its ancient wheels squeak terribly, grinding along the track and gradually picking up speed. The butterflies make a sudden jump within your stomach. Such a childish feeling, this anxious excitement.  
  


You’re glad to be on a train again. It feels like going home.


End file.
